Fraternity of Jackals
by SydnieWren
Summary: Itachi contends with life in Akatsuki. Dark. M/M.


**Hi all! I've been so busy with school that I've barely had time to write, so I'm trying to get back in the groove. I really hope you like this. Please let me know what you think!**

**Warnings: group sex, facials, masturbation, dark.**

**Disclaimer: don't own. **

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It is not that they are not recognized, but that there is little that can be done about them. The innkeeper, a clean-cut middle-aged man, eyes their cloaks and high collars as he slides two keys across the desk. Itachi scoops up the keys by their numbered tabs, and Kisame pays the deposit for their rooms.

He can feel the innkeeper's eyes on their backs all the way down the quiet corridor, where the carpet is thin and the scent of sour tea clings to the wood-paneled walls.

Their rooms are directly across from one another. Itachi passes a key to Kisame, and as he turns away, the other speaks.

"I'm going back out. You?"

"No," Itachi says softly. He turns the key in the lock, and it releases smoothly.

If the hallway was quiet, the room is silent. There is no dust on the low nightstand, or stains on the threadbare bedspread. Nor is there any light, save for a few veins of pale evening blue passing through the gauzy curtains of a small window. Itachi parts them and peers into the night.

Neither of them had anticipated making this village by nightfall, but their travel had been easier than expected, given the pleasant summer weather. All of his clothes smelled faintly of sweat; even in the warmest conditions, they both wore their cloaks. Itachi suspects that other members do not adhere so strictly to the sartorial expectations of their group, but Kisame is fanatical, a true believer, one of the die-hards.

And Itachi likes it about him, though he never expresses it. So he wears his cloak over his shoulders during the hottest hours of the longest days of the year as if to affirm Kisame's bold act of believing in something.

Anything.

Itachi deposits his pack onto the narrow bed. As always, he travels lightly: there are enough provisions for the mission, as few spare weapons as he can conscionably carry, and medical supplies enough for one mildly wounded. He drapes his cloak over the back of a chair and slides his fingers beneath the layer of mesh armor hidden under his shirt.

There is a shower crammed into the corner of the tiny bathroom attached to the room, and even after all these years, Itachi retains the ANBU-instilled reflex to shower when possible, bloodied or not.

_They can smell you, _Tenzou had said, helpful, earnest, grave. And Itachi had thought it absurd until he had met Kisame, whose nose for blood is yet unrivaled.

But it will wait. He settles instead onto the edge of the bed and lifts his shirt and armor up over his head. A thrill of pleasure races up his spine as his hair falls against his back, and since he will not be going out again in the near future, he slides the elastic out of it with care.

It feels good, thick and smooth, like his mother's. He runs his fingers through from the crown to the ends, drawing it away from his forehead. His scalp tingles, and he pauses for only a moment to sense the faintest quickening of his pulse. He is seventeen, young and vigorous, susceptible to the very suggestion of pleasure.

This is a development: he joined Akatsuki virtually sexless, too preoccupied with the crushing weight of guilt and obligation to consider his changing body. Over time he has grown habituated to the shame, and through the constant haze of it rise peaks of impulse, which he understands only abstractly.

He lies back slowly, listening to the world outside the squat window. There is a festival going on, something dedicated to this particular village's relationship with summer. The gates of the city were strewn with garlands of plum blossoms and strung with white paper lanterns, and when Itachi and Kisame had requested entrance to visit, the toothless old gatekeeper had laughed: _anything you like, boys!_

Itachi arches his back to slide his pants over his hips. His cock is half-hard against the flat expanse of his stomach, and as he strokes it he twists his fingers in his hair. His eyes drift shut, then the images surface.

It was during the war. Even if he forgets the event, he knows he will remember the context. Early winter had set in, and the days were short. Underfoot the ground was dead cold and tight. Through the leafless fronts of ferns and the bare branches of trees Itachi watched the huddled shoulders of six Konoha shinobi as they circled around a seventh.

And this one was naked in the cold. He lay on his back, propped up somewhat on his elbows, smeared with dirt and some thick white fluid Itachi did not yet recognize.

_They're killing him, _Itachi had thought, but he was neither wounded nor trying to escape. One of the other shinobi knelt down over the man, and Itachi saw the thick line of his erect penis in profile as he took hold of the other's ankles. The others held their penises in their hands, some lazily stroking as they watched transfixed. And Itachi, too, was transfixed, focused singularly on the reclining man's face. His eyes were closed but his lips were parted over his clenched teeth, and though the air was dry and frigid, a bead of sweat cleared a bath through the grime on his temple.

A cold wind rustled the trees. The kneeling shinobi moved his hips rhythmically, his pace increasing, until in a short soundless moment he withdrew his penis and took it in hand; simultaneously he circled his hand around the man's neck and drew him forward. Itachi watched the spray of white liquid splash against his face, clinging to his cheek and the bridge of his nose and then dripping over his lips.

Itachi's breath comes quick and hot through his teeth. After a long moment it abates, slows, and he is naked and dazed on the hotel bed, his fingers trailing through his cooling semen.

The voices outside the window have grown more boisterous. Music has joined them, along with the faint echo of fireworks, and a current of laughter. The blue of evening has become the black of night, tempered by colored lanterns suspended over the streets.

Itachi rises and enters the bathroom, waiting a moment for the dim florescent light to flicker to life. It hums as he leans over the sink and scrubs away his seed.

In the bedroom he ties his hair again. It is night, but he feels unsettled, restless. He tugs his armor and shirt back on, and for a moment his hand lingers on his cloak.

_I'll leave it, _he thinks, _it's warm out._

He fastens it over his shoulders and pockets his room key before leaving.

The streets are packed with festival-goers in traditional clothes. Among them Itachi does not look so strange. He moves with the crowd down the center of a thoroughfare lined with stalls and booths; the scents of roasted octopus and steamed dumplings are suffuse with memory, and the flowers dangling from women's hair glow softly in the lantern light.

This village could be any other at the height of summer. The air is warm and moist and fragrant, and there is birdsong long after sundown. Itachi loosens the top clasp of his cloak and feels the wind against his throat, where his beaded necklace sits just below his newly prominent adam's apple.

Their faces all seem consanguine: round, dark eyes; wide foreheads; narrow jawlines with open, laughing mouths. Some of their voices must come to him from someplace else; they are vague and drifting but loud. A temple bell rings in the distance, followed by another barrage of fireworks, and awed laughter.

Itachi begins to regret relinquishing his solitude. After so many months of traveling exclusively with Kisame, mostly through the forests and swamps of night, he has grown unaccustomed to excessive sound and color. His eyes flicker from shifting sleeve to sizzling griddle, and then onto the silhouette of the undulating mass stretching endlessly down the thoroughfare.

He departs from the crowd. Off the wide street there are a series of branching alleys, which he follows with no particular intention other than to be alone. Villagers linger outside the awnings of restaurants and bars, smoking and talking amongst themselves, sparing barely a glance to note him as he passes by.

And still their shuffling footsteps in the gravel trigger his sensitive reflexes. An old man snuffs his cigarette out on a pavestone and the soft grinding sound threatens to shift Itachi's eyes from black to red.

_I need to be alone._

The sharingan are as much masters of Itachi as he is of them, and their resolve is much more powerful than his own.

Fireflies drift above the pooled water beneath a gutter spout as he rounds a corner, finding himself in the threshold of a bar. The night crowd is relatively thick and comprised of civilians, not shinobi. This is fortuitous: every now and again drunken jounin with bingo books and too little apprehension threaten him to their own demise.

Through the haze of smoke and the aggressively sour scent of alcohol he can sense the salt of sweat and the peculiar smell of naked flesh. Shoulders brush against him and he catches glimpses of faces and notes of voices, echoes of laughter. Toward the back of the bar there is a long, narrow hallway, and here he thinks he can find a solitary moment to compose himself.

"Oi, didn't think you were heading back out."

Itachi knows the chakra before the voice, and senses Kisame's presence before the other settles a hand on his shoulder. He turns and looks him over once before muttering something noncommittal.

"Well," Kisame grins, "how about a drink?"

The jagged meeting of his teeth summoms the memory of his introduction: the words have grown vague in Itachi's memory, but the content has never faded. His kind eat their own.

"I should go back," he declines.

"Oh?"

Kisame follows him back into the dark street.

"You sure?" he continues, trailing along behind Itachi as he retraces his steps, "It's a good night, and there's just more traveling tomorrow."

There is always more traveling tomorrow, and even the steps that take him by chance or design closer to Konoha take him further away from the past. He moves into the future alone, and in his weakest moments he thinks of Sasuke, whose mere presence somewhere in the world is Itachi's last trace of kinship.

Kisame has caught up with him.

"Probably better," he muses, "always good to get proper rest."

"Why do you wear your cloak in the summer?" Itachi asks, apropos of nothing. Kisame seems temporarily surprised.

"Suppose I don't think about it," he supplies at length.

The crowd has thinned somewhat, and travel on the thoroughfare is easier. Itachi hears Kisame's answer but does not respond. Instead he imagines that the answer was different, that it had to do with allegiances, and that it means loyalties can exist between men in their profession.

This reality is far more palatable. Itachi feels somewhat at ease. They reach the inn, pass the startled man at the front desk without a word, and return to their designated rooms.

_I should shower._

Earlier, he realizes, he had the perfect opportunity and missed it; now it's late, and the length of his day is catching up with him. This regret will join a sea of others too vast to change much with its addition.

Itachi switches the water on to its hottest temperature and leans against the flimsy metal frame of the shower as he waits for it to warm. Steam rises above the tile, obscuring the filthy grout somewhat. Itachi squints: there seem to be flecks of blood in the dark-colored grime, but his vision isn't what it once was.

He steps underneath the spray of searing water.

_Sasuke, _he thinks, and he can feel the hoop of his ring against his cheek as he covers his face with his hands, _wherever you are, be anything but jealous of me. _

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**Thanks for the read! Please let me know your thoughts.  
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